


the charm about you (will carry me to heaven)

by objectlesson



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bittersweet, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Queer Families
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:42:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26869873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Sam watches Frodo, and Thorin notices him watching
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 23
Kudos: 210





	the charm about you (will carry me to heaven)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for fictober and thought it was too short to post, but I liked it so much and it made my wife cry for an unreasonably long time, so I I think it deserves to be shared. Plus I love stuff about generational queerness.

Sam loves nights at Bag End, because Frodo is most himself, here. 

At the marketplace in town he holds himself differently, straight-backed and polite, like politeness is a mask he must wear. Even when he’s had a mug of ale at the Green Dragon, he does not laugh as freely as he does when he is home with his uncles, cooking with them, telling stories with them, coexisting effortlessly with them. Sam feels so terribly _privileged_ to be one of the people in the Shire Frodo _trusts_ this way—to see him like this. Carefree and broken open with his family, like a tomato that’s over-ripened and split along a seam to leak red. 

In some ways, Sam is most himself at Bag End, too. 

It is only here he can sit on the intricately carved benches in the kitchen and watch Frodo unabashedly. It’s made possible because Thorin will sit _with_ him and watch Bilbo the same way, and it makes Sam think that maybe watching the same person your whole life isn't so bad after all. 

Thorin will sigh and stretch out, his mostly grey hair loosely braided back behind his ears in twin plaits, his fingers twice, maybe even _three_ times the thickness of Sam’s as he clutches his mug of mulled wine. Sam will mimic Thorin’s body language sometimes, even if he doesn’t realize it. There is something effortlessly commanding in his motion, and Sam is ever-chasing the security it brings to the room. He would like to be the sort of hobbit who occupies space without shame, or apology. To protect what is dear to him, without fear. 

Sam studies the slope of Frodo’s nose from his safe distance, his own cheeks hot as he sips his drink. Bilbo and Frodo are making pies, slicing fruit and grinding cinnamon sticks into powder, laughing as they try to remember some old drinking song Bilbo once learned from the elves. 

“He makes things up, you know,” Thorin says slyly after a few moments, elbowing Sam with a gentle nudge, voice low enough no one else can hear him. “Some songs and rhymes, he invented all on his own. He says the elves taught them to him so they will sound more _credible_. Others, he _did_ learn from the elves, but for those he takes all the credit himself.” Thorin says this with the fondest, warmest smile, and he is not looking at Sam, but at Bilbo. 

Sam clears his throat. “It’s a very nice song, Mister Thorin, no matter where it comes from.” 

Thorin smiles and stands, reaching out to ruffle Sam’s hair with those impossibly thick fingers. Sam gasps, stunned to be touched in such a way by Frodo’s dwarf-uncle, who is usually very quiet, and very stoic. There’s a glint to his eyes tonight though, and it glimmers like starlight as he says, “To love a Baggins is to love his white lies, as well as his truths.” The words have a musical quality, somehow, as if he is spewing some well-worn piece of wisdom, a proven proverb to take to the grave. _And you know what that is like, don’t you, Samwise?_ he does not say aloud, but Sam can read it in the lines framing his smile. He can read it, and he cannot deny it. 

He looks down, cheeks coloring. He thinks of Frodo’s masks, his politeness, the way he acts differently outside this house, even if it is imperceptibly small, and perhaps subconscious. So many white lies, and yes, Sam loves those too. Thorin can somehow see into his heart, no matter how fiercely he tries to guard it. He decides it’s alright, though, to be flayed open in Bag End. It is the only place where your secrets will stay locked up even as you bleed, hidden in the floorboards alongside dragon-gold, and Darrow-carved trinkets. It is the only place secrets can be whispered, quietly, from mouth to mouth.

The kitchen smells like cinnamon now that the pies are in the oven, and Frodo comes spinning Sam’s way moments later, four dusting his arms like new snow. “Dance with me, Sam,” he says, grinning. “To this elvish drinking song Bilbo knows. I require a partner to do it properly.” 

“Ok, Mister Frodo. I’ll be your partner,” Sam says in a hush, burning beneath Thorin’s heavy, knowing gaze. 

He does as he’s told and he does it with joy, wishing he never had to leave this kitchen. Or, at least, that he never had to leave the version of Frodo he finds here. His eyes like shallow pools of cool water left by the fall’s first rain. His smile as white as a sliver of new moon. 

Sam wishes to kiss it, the way Thorin kisses Bilbo’s smile, down the hall where they both think they will not be seen. 

He sees all the same, though, and blushes as Frodo wheels around him, cheeks bright, grin brighter. _And you know what that is like, Samwise,_ Sam thinks, Thorin’s unspoken voice echoing like a second heartbeat. 

He pulls Frodo closer, so that they are cheek to cheek. 


End file.
